


Art Kids

by jigoku (vnitas)



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vnitas/pseuds/jigoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about a boy named Joshua who plays the piano and a boy named Neku who draws. I am writing this story especially for you. Please stay here with me. (Joshneku, AU, angst/WAFF. Everything is gonna be okay. Multichaptered. Ongoing. Prologue up. Triple-uploaded to here, Ao3, and Tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the preamble, which is important to the story, and author's notes, and an explanation of why I am writing this.
> 
> Sort of.

**Please read this.**

This is a prologue to a story that I am writing for you, especially, if you are a teenager going through a hard time, and I want you to stay here with me until the story is done. If you have ever cried at night and told no one this story is for you. If your friends have ever lied to you this story is for you. If you feel like your body is not yours or is not good enough or is strange or lumpy or ugly, if your body hurts because you hurt it this story is for you. I am telling you a story, and it is an important story, and I want you to listen. This is the story of two boys. These two boys exist in many universes. In one, one is a god, and shoots the other- another, happier- they elope at age fourteen, only to be brought home by their parents soaking wet after a storm- in another, one is older when they meet, runs a ramen shop- there are multiple versions.

But in each one, a boy named Neku Sakuraba discovers that  _the world_  is not so awful, and a boy named Joshua Kiryu discovers that _he_  is not so awful. There is hope for even the worst of worlds, the worst of people. There is even hope for this world, and of course there is especially hope for you. That's what I want you to take away from this. I am writing as honestly as I can. I am only writing what I know for sure.

The first is named Neku Sakuraba: in this world, born in a big city in Texas to Japanese parents, speaks fluent Japanese and English. Fifteen years old. Works at Moe's, which is a small (both figuratively and literally) coffee shop, gets a paycheck every week which he mostly spends on art supplies and records. Looks up to Banksy like a mountain climber looks up to the Himalayas. Spends his free time indoors, sketching his messy room with whatever new indie folk record is much cooler than what you're listening to on full volume and repeat. In middle school he thought of killing himself, and now he is in high school with friends and is happy. He's fascinated by the way light affects a landscape, and wants to produce a piece that reflects that, but doesn't know _how_ -

The second is Joshua Kiryu: Fifteen years old. Current residence: Texas, in a relatively artsy part of a relatively un-artsy city. Drops by Moe's on Saturday mornings. Hair color: "ash blonde". Refers to things as "snazzy", sarcastically. Refers to other things as "powerful," not sarcastically. Wears, over his lilac dress shirt, a vest with old-fashioned bottle caps pinned on. He sits like an eagle or maybe a vulture or a gargoyle, and he is afraid of a great many things, and he has thought of killing himself more than once.

This is the story of these boys, as I said; also of the winter that they met, and felt like they knew each other from somewhere- sometime, before. It is the story of two art kids, and also of every art kid. It is the story of two sad kids, and every sad kid. This is the story of not only one boy named Joshua Kiryu who sneaks Xanax to school in an Altoid box, not to sell but to soothe his panic attacks, but of every kid who sneaks Xanax to school, who cries at slam poetry recitals, who spends too much on acrylics and canvas, who calls their best friend after a suicide attempt sobbing, who drinks strong coffee like lifeblood, who falls in love recklessly and without discrimination, of every starry-veined kid out there with a universe beating in their chest instead of a heart and a mantra pounding in their skull.

Please stay here with me.


	2. brave as a noun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter. The setting up of the chess board. The vomiting in the alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So! Wow! Jigoku here. Wow. First chapter. I can't really believe I actually wrote something over 1,000 words. 
> 
> Have fun with this!!
> 
> Content warn for vomiting and self-harm mention.

The following are a series of snapshots taking place on different days in the winter of 2012-2013. They are intended to give you your bearings in this mess of a story.

The dates are presented in the American style, Month-Day-Year, because your humble writer is American and has thus fallen into this inferior habit.

Her apologies.

**12-15-12**

In the Victoria’s Secret store, Shiki clutches a fistful of string bikini panties. The cloth and lace feels soft in her hands. Distracted, Shiki wonders if Eri would like these... Leopard print, stripe… one is white with pink polka dots, which Neku kind of thinks is cute, maybe. “They’re so… skimpy,” she mutters, squinting at them. Neku has absolutely no idea why he has been taken here. The place reeks of sweet perfume.

“There are some over here which seem less… you know. They cover your butt more,” says Neku, who is slowly growing more and more uncomfortable. On top of the fact that he is surrounded by sexy underwear, the males in this store seem to mostly be the boyfriends of the females in the store. Neku is not Shiki’s boyfriend, and for once, there’s no denial in this statement. He hopes people don’t think that he’s there to pick underwear out for Shiki to wear in their bedroom. That’d be weird.

“Hm,” says Shiki, inspecting the panties that Neku is pointing to. “You’re right! I’m gonna go try these on. And no, I won’t model for you,” she says, sticking her tongue out a little, and Neku rolls his eyes.

“By the way,” calls Shiki over her shoulder as she carries the armful of underwear to the fitting rooms, “when are you going to ask Josh out?”

**1-1-13**

Happy new year, Josh.

Happy new year, Neku.

A kiss like champagne and Starbursts.

**12-6-12**

In times of darkness, in times of trouble and storms and when the fury of heaven crashes down upon us all, in times of trial and in times of being locked away in the highest tower circled by dark clouds, when the stars have been blown out like birthday candles, my angel comes to me breathing, “Are you wearing a tampon around your neck?”

And Neku says, “I’m surprised you know what a tampon is.”

And Joshua says, “Well, I know a lot of things you wouldn’t expect me to.”

Moe’s is positively jumping, inasmuch as a coffee shop can be. It is Saturday, bursting with cold sunlight as a grapefruit bursts with juice, and people of all sorts: tall people, short people, young girls in plaid shirts and old men in bowler hats, weave in and out of the fancy glass doors like silverfish. Neku is handing Joshua his frap (one pump caramel, one pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice with two shots poured over the top and caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped, ordered not because Joshua gets off on ridiculously complicated coffee orders but to be a dick). This is not the first time they have spoken.

The French music hums in the background of the scene. “It’s an MP3 player,” says Neku. “What else do you know.”

“Chopin wasn’t born in Paris, but he went there in 1831 and never went back home.”

“Wow. Super neato.”

Joshua tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, smiling. “I detect sarcasm.”

“Me? No. Never.”

“Yo, Phones!” Yells Beat, Neku’s coworker, from the cash register. “I need some help over here!” Wow, the line is certainly getting long, isn’t it.

“Coming,” says Neku, rolling his eyes and grinning at Joshua before swooping away from the coffee-making station and back to the register. “Wassup.”

**1-2-13**

Joshua in an emergency room. Three AM. Green and white walls, the lights are bright. They are putting something in his veins. He is answering questions. No, I do not feel like hurting myself anymore.

Two. Yes. Half the bottle. When can I have my phone back? Oh. Yes, half the bottle. Sleeping pills. I don’t know. Where’s my father? Oh. You’re welcome. Through the window, he can see a starved black cat, almost skeletal, illuminated by alley lights. It looks at him and meows and he can’t hear it through the glass.

**5-28-13**

“You can do this,” says Neku, “I know you can!”

Joshua believes him and begins to play the piano.

 

* * *

 

Picture TV static. Now back to your regularly scheduled program.

Picture this, also: the parking lot behind Moe’s on a cold Sunday in early December. Particularly cold, for Texas; you can see your breath, like a little bit of your spirit escaping each time you exhale. A dog barks somewhere, a very loud and poppy sound, and the sound waves seem to seep into the sidewalk like tea being steeped. The parking lot is concrete and therefore gray, and the skies are cloudy and therefore gray, and the cars in the parking lot are mostly gray, and therefore an aura of gray has settled upon the stage, but not the oppressive sort. Everything, to Neku, feels lax and smooth, like butter or an afternoon nap in the sunroom, and Neku, who is sitting on the curb drinking coffee with Joshua during his break here, feels very calm.

As usual, Joshua does not feel calm, but he has built his life upon faking it. The scene feels stuttery, like an arhythmic heartbeat, a jolting and pulling. The bark of the dog seems like the bark of a dog infinitely tall and infinitely wide, with teeth the size of the Statue of Liberty, and its noise rakes through his skull like popcorn. He is sipping coffee and studying the graffiti mural across the street, and seeing how far he can throw some pebbles he found on the ground. They feel smooth in his hand and they keep him grounded, a little.

“Beat’s having a New Year’s party,” says Neku, in a chill, art student kind of way. He sips his coffee. It is a plain coffee, with cream and sugar, made mostly for the sake of keeping him warm. His headphones, slung around his neck, are dully playing The Bowerbirds, and Joshua strains to hear the sound. “He has a really big house, and people are like, let’s totally trash it. His parents are loaded. No idea why he works here.”

“Wouldn’t he get in trouble with his parents? If people trashed his house,” says Joshua.

Neku shrugs.

There is silence for a moment, to Neku a comfortable silence but to Joshua a sort of silence that sounds like hailstones on a roof, and then Neku says, “So how’s your school going?”

“It’s okay,” says Joshua, which is not true and a lie because today a tall boy called him a fag and slammed him into the water fountain and got his pants soaking wet and for the rest of the day people asked him if he pissed himself.

Neku says, “Do you wanna come?”

“What, to the party?” Joshua thinks Neku means the fancy art school he goes to.

“No, to my quinceañera. Yes, to the party.”

Joshua gets up and starts walking around. He is looking at the asphalt. “I don’t know. Did Beat invite me?”

Joshua’s heart is currently beating at a hummingbird rate, and not with the happy buzz of love, no; he feels like there are botflies in his stomach. He isn’t sure what triggered it this time, he hardly ever is, but he feels another panic attack coming on, ready to envelope him in needles and ice cubes.

“No, but he was like, bring whoever you want. He wouldn’t mind. He knows you.” Neku is watching Joshua. He has wandered to the edge of the parking lot. He appears to be walking somewhat quickly. Neku follows him.

“That mural is shit,” Neku says, looking at the graffiti across the street. “The colors totally clash, and not in a good way.” He crosses the narrow street in a few long steps and studies the painting. Joshua follows him. He tries to focus on the painting, but it is very cold outside, he thinks, even though he is wearing a coat. Joshua also feels like the earth below his feet is very soft, a sinkhole, it will collapse and swallow him up. He hides this from Neku as always. The sky promises rain.

“Are your hands cold?” Asks Neku, noticing that Joshua is not wearing gloves.

“Yeah,” says Joshua.

“Wanna hold hands?”

Joshua looks at Neku in panic before he realizes that Neku is joking. He resists the nervous urge to vomit.

They start walking towards the drainage ditch, drinking their coffees. The ditch is concrete and runs through the city, collecting water and refuse. There is a lot of trash floating in it, empty cans and Wal-Mart bags. Neku leans over the railing of the bridge and looks at the murky-brown water, which still isn’t frozen. Joshua falls into his old habit of looking for turtles. His mother, when Joshua was six or so, would always tell him to look for turtles whenever they were near any body of water, even a fountain. Although he looks very hard, he cannot see a single one. That was before the crash.

“So do you wanna come?” Asks Neku.

“What?”

“To the party.”

“Uh… sure?” Says Joshua. “If you’re sure Beat would be okay with it, I mean.”

“Beat doesn’t care, dude. It’s fine.”

“When is it? … Oh, New Year’s. Duh.”

The rain starts slowly, little dark speckles on the concrete, and then faster and faster, Joshua getting hit by fat drops of freezing water and shivering. Neku pulls his hood up. Joshua pulls down his long sleeves.

“Yeah, I’ll go.”

 

* * *

When Joshua gets away from Neku, he stumbles into an alley and pukes from nerves, hard, all his aspirations and secret crushes and hummingbird heart and lunch in big semi-digested chunks on the pavement in the alley. He makes an ugly hacking sound as he does it, like a saw through wood. He wonders if he’ll see a botfly in the vomit. It feels like he’s throwing up lightbulbs and firework fuses, purple sparklers, party streamers. He swears he sees a match. For a moment he wants to puke out his organs and die. He holds his own hair back, because no one is there to do it for him.

When he sinks down against the brick wall, the rain has begun to truly pour. He had a crush on the boy who called him a fag. He was tall with dark hair. If he closes his eyes he can see those feelings turning into mustard gas and swirling into the atmosphere. He imagines them in a spray can.

Joshua takes the Metro home. He sits not far from a man who seems homeless. He hopes that this man gets a job.The shakes in his hands are dying down and he feels like maybe he will not have to take out the lighter to calm down. It is a little silver lighter. It is a friend of his.

Looking out the window, Joshua knows this: he knows that Neku goes to a magnet  high school for fine arts, where he studies painting and drawing, among other things. Joshua knows that the school has a big mural in the front hall, a beautiful, constantly changing mural, because Neku has described it to him many times. Joshua knows that Neku has a friend named Shiki, who is in the theater department, studying costume design. Joshua knows that people at this art school are generally not cruel. Having met him in September, Joshua knows that Neku is happy.

Looking out the window, Joshua knows this: he knows that he tried to get into that art school, for music. He tried so hard. Now he goes to the kind of school where a tall boy called him a fag and slammed him into the water fountain and got his pants soaking wet and for the rest of the day people asked him if he pissed himself. The burns on his thighs are testament.

Joshua Kiryu is this: he is fifteen years old, and he thinks about dying a lot. Also, he buys coffee from Moe’s, and he listens to vinyl records, with big scratches, and dances alone in his room at three AM. You can’t see the stars in this city, so he sticks glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, because that’s the kind of boy he is; he is always afraid and he will never say that he is afraid; he leaves food on his windowsill for stray cats; he snaps on impulse. His veins are a road map that he wants to paint on his wall. But he is afraid.


End file.
